


Merry Interlude

by Starlithorizon



Series: Molly Hooper, Deliverer of Souls [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty John for good measure, Christmas, Drunken Singing, F/M, angsty Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Christmas party from someone who is neither Molly nor Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greg's Holiday Interlude

Greg Lestrade sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Ordinarily, he loved this time of year. The air was just the sort of crisp he loved best. It was cold, but not savagely so. There was always a fire in whatever grate was nearest, things smelled of evergreen, cinnamon, and _cheer_ (does cheer have an actual scent? Either way), and the food was better. Ordinarily, it was his favourite time of year.

Of course now, he had been divorced for the past three years, and he was admittedly tired of the perpetual, forced happiness of the holiday. The cinnamon was too thick, almost cloying. Evergreen trees were just a fire hazard. The food was too rich and bountiful and he was sick to his stomach just looking at it.

So, walking to 221b, he made the decision to get pissed at the party and enjoy himself, even if that was while he was heroically drunk.

He was the first guest to arrive, unless one counted Mrs Hudson. She pottered about in the kitchen, tutting at her boys for the mess they had left her. She flashed him a huge smile when he came in.

"Oh, hello, Greg!" she cried, pulling him into a flour- and perfume-scented hug. He smiled dully back at her.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs H."

John grinned at Greg and lifted a steaming mug in greeting.

"Like some tea?" he asked, already moving for the kettle.

"Love some, yeah." Greg pulled off his coat and scarf, which Mrs Hudson tucked away for him. She brought out a tray of nibbles, and he helped himself, smiling. He couldn't stay bitter in the face of such kind happiness. Besides, it had been three years—he should be fine.

Of course, he _was_  fine, nine days out of ten. But once Christmas started rearing its big festive head, it was all he could do to pretend to be all right. Pretending was wearing him down.

Eventually, Sherlock came back from god-knows-where bearing a case of lager. Greg could have hugged him then and there.

"God, that was tedious," the consultant snapped, setting the beer down on the kitchen table with more force than was necessary. "Do you know how many stores I had to go to before finding one that was open?"

The short doctor smiled innocently up at his friend and shrugged.

"Don't care," he said, and Sherlock frowned hugely, the drama queen. He flounced back into the sitting room to remove his coat and scarf, all without acknowledging Greg. He didn't mind, though. He didn't need Sherlock to throw cheery greetings his way. They were friends, and he supposed that was all that mattered, or something.

"Sherlock, where's your violin?" John asked after a bit, looking around for the case. Sherlock took on a surprisingly dark look and darted into his bedroom to retrieve the precious thing. Greg understood the darkness; it was a sort of fear, fear that someone, even his treasured blogger, might touch and break his violin. Greg knew the importance of it. John did too, of course, but he hadn't ever seen the way that simply _touching_ the instrument or its bow could soothe the man when he was strung out on cocaine, or whatever shit was pumping through his system.

Shortly after that, there was a small commotion at the front door, and Sherlock's I perilous brother came in, Molly Hooper on his arm. A dangerously pristine woman in green and black trailed a moment after, eyes flues to her mobile. He greeted the trio as he ought, but his words faded to a slack jaw when John took her coat.

He saw her in the morgue quite often, but _damn_ if she wasn't gorgeous. Not a vixen really, but some sweeter version of that.

Her gift, a simple silver tie pin that would look quote dashing next time he had to do something important and official, was passed with a lipsticked smile that shouldn't have made his heart rate jump.

He gave her a soft purple pair of gloves and got a kiss on the cheek for his efforts.

Of course, he was well on his way to drunk half an hour later, slurring carols and praise with his brother-in-drink. They were _good_ , singing like Frank Sinatra and Elvis Goddamn Presley. He couldn't quite understand why there wasn't more applause from people who didn't look like John, but then again, he couldn't quite understand how to make his feet work. Oh, well.

* * *

He woke the next morning with a nice little hangover, a stiff neck, a sore back from sleeping on the sofa, and a stern internal lecture on drinking like that at his age.

But, as if to make up for everything, when he slipped his hand inside his coat pocket on the way home, he found a scrap of paper bearing Molly Hooper's mobile number and a smiley face.

He looked _exactly_ like that smiley face the whole way home.


	2. John's Holiday Interlude

John moved about the flat, setting things out for the guests, putting the cards in the mantel, turning on the lights draped over the mirror. He smiled fondly at the skull nearly dwarfed by the red hat. It looked like that Christmas Eve from so long ago, maybe years, maybe millennia.

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, buttoning his suit jacket with a mildly long-suffering look.

"Look," John said, reading the tantrum before anything could possibly be spoken. "I need to finish up here and help Mrs Hudson, which means I need you to get the lager. It shouldn't take long."

"It's Christmas Eve, John," Sherlock said, in the edge of a huff. "Everything will be closed."

"What are you talking about? Tesco will be open."

"Yes, but they don't sell the bitter you like." John was momentarily struck by this small, innocent kindness from Sherlock. Of course, it was no surprise that he knew precisely which was John's favourite beer, but still.

And then, of course, he realized who he was talking to.

"Somewhere is bound to be open," John insisted, putting a blue scarf into the detective's hands. Sherlock grimaced, John grinned, and he set to wrapping his friend's gift. It was a silly, flimsy excuse to get him out of the flat, but it certainly had worked.

Once he had that task finished, Mrs Hudson bustled in bearing treats. There was another tray in her kitchen, which he fetched for her. Together, they got everything ready and waiting for the guests.

Greg was first to arrive, and he certainly looked less than cheery. Being the kind of man he was, John offered a cup of tea, which the other man took gratefully. This time of year was easy for most people, but sometimes, even when things were good, it was a difficult thing to stomach. There was such a thing as too much joy, and it got bitter really quickly.

John was still facing the unreality of Sherlock's death. It was too much joy, too much good. He could hardly stand it, being filled past the brim till he overflowed and ended up a bit empty.

Perhaps, after those three years, he was still unused to being properly happy.

Sherlock returned soon, bearing the pale lager he preferred instead of John's bitter, but in a quiet moment in the kitchen, John was given a bottle of the beer that was his favourite, and all was well. Next came Mycroft, with Molly on his arm and Anthea taking up the back. Anthea was gorgeous, of course, but when he removed Molly's coat, he was stuck (again) with just how lovely she was. Nothing would come of it, since it appeared that Greg had eyes for the little brunette, but that didn't mean he couldn't look, right?

The gift exchange happened shortly after everyone was there. John handed Sherlock his gift, a book on _Poisins Through the Ages_ , and was delighted by the detective's gleeful reception. He shouldn't encourage the fascination, but he when he saw it in the book shop, he knew it was meant for his friend.

Sherlock's gift to John was not the bitter, actually, but rather a new mug (bearing the inscription _Best Student Ever_ (bloody git)) and box with a variety of teas. Just the sort of thing for John Watson. Even if it painted Sherlock in the bright light of his own ego.

Eventually, everyone who wasn't a Holmes was drinking, and Sherlock had brought out his violin, John and Greg, who had certainly whetted their whistles, were singing like the greats. Who knew their voices were so excellent?

When John's legs were no longer cooperating from all the cheer flooding his system, he decided that the coffee table was a comfortable place to sleep after all.

* * *

The next morning, his back, neck, and shoulder were in revolt. His head was fuzzy with hangover, and the smell of a fry-up was making his mouth water disgustingly.

The water and paracetamol on the bathroom counter, waiting kindly for him, made him grin woozily at Sherlock and hug Mrs Hudson, his family through death and the return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were a bit angsty. I did not expect that.  
> That's cool.

**Author's Note:**

> Punch me in the face if these get repetitive, okay? Thanks, guys.


End file.
